


Ignites a Spark

by skybound2



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang 2015, Drama, F/M, Happy Ending, Humor, Menstruation, Miscarriage, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybound2/pseuds/skybound2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the plans we make are better off scraped, and luck is a fickle, untrustworthy soul. Or the one where a Hero and a Champion come to terms with their lots in life, and find out that sometimes it’s better to just go with it. (Or something.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ignites a Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang](http://dragonagebb.tumblr.com/tagged/dragon-age-reverse-big-bang) on tumblr.  
>  **For Artwork** : [#38 by celestsadira](http://celestsadira.tumblr.com/post/135359339450/my-entry-for-the-dragon-age-big-bang-please-read), who made an absolutely AMAZING piece of art that was filled with happiness and beauty (and maybe a little bit of blood ;-D), and who then gave me permission to deal with a heavy subject matter in the fic that I wrote to accompany it. THANK YOU SO MUCH! You are a gem!  
>  **Warnings:** Talks of menstruation, pregnancy, and deals with miscarriage.  
>  **Notes:** Despite that last warning, I SWEAR this has a happy ending! It just takes a bit to get there. I can only hope that you enjoy the ride. Title is based on a lyric from the song _We Sink_ by **Of Monsters and Men**.

* * *

There is something comforting about rules. Structure. About knowing the proper protocol and procedures to follow in any given event. Of having well-established protocols upon which you may rely when the unexpected occurs.

Of being certain what choice you will make when faced with a decision, no matter how atypical the situation you are in may be.

Surana has spent the vast majority of her life developing a great respect for rules. Procedures. Protocols.

For how else could someone living under the ever-watchful eyes of a small army of templars inside the closeted walls of a circle tower ever cultivate the ability to bend them ( _never break_ ) without being caught?

In retrospect, it was really no surprise that the first time she’d opted to throw caution to the wind, and act without thinking through all the consequences of her actions ( _How could she not? When Jowen_ needed _her help. The lying prick._ ) she’d ended up cast from the tower and the only life she’d ever known. Sent traveling halfway across Ferelden to drink a goblet of darkspawn blood (because THAT’s a thing) - and _oh,_ by the way! _Please save us all from the Blight, Surana! You are clearly the most qualified one-week old Warden in all of Thedas! What could possibly go wrong?!_

A lot, as it turned out.

That’s all water under the bridge these days, though. They’d won, in the end. And sure, she’d had to barter away Alistair’s innocence and grant Morrigan a possibly all-powerful ancient-god-baby in order to make sure that the Blight was ended, and the world was saved for the chance to die another day (one when she’d - _hopefully_ \- not be in charge), but it had **worked**. And isn’t that what mattered most?

And while Morrigan, who disappeared _in a mirror_ to presumably raise her possibly all-powerful ancient-god-baby, continued to be shit with correspondence, leaving Surana uncertain of _that_ outcome, Alistair was muddling his way rather well through the intricacies of being King, and all the claptrap that involved. And last she’d heard from the rest of her friends and former companions, most of them were doing well - hell, _thriving_ \- in the aftermath of the fifth Blight.

And Surana... _well_...for her part, after a short _several year long_ detour in Amaranthine (because _someone,_ _somewhere_ had gotten it in their head that she was a _logical_ choice to be an Arlessa; because _of course_ they had), she’d _finally_ gotten to run off with Zevran as thanks for all her trouble.

As far as rewards go, she considers it one of the better ones.

So, by necessity of her completely unpredictable life, Surana has learned to relax her stance on rules and procedures. She’s come to believe that there _is_ absolutely a time to break with such things. A time, when one can’t put stock in concepts and preparations made in the past, and must instead learn to adapt. To _change_.

To flow with the current of the river, lest fighting too hard do naught but pull you under.

She’s learned all this, but still, there is comfort to be had in the familiar. To know with absolute certainty what you will do in a given circumstance.

But there is no protocol for _this_. Or rather, there _is_ one, but Surana discarded the knowledge rather than absorbing it, so sure was she that it would never be of use.

As Zevran rubs a hand in soothing patterns on her lower back while she hangs her head between her knees in a vain attempt to ease her overwhelming nausea, she wishes like _hell_ that she could recall what she is supposed to _do_ now.

After several beats of her galloping heart, she manages to lift her head enough to meet the eyes of the healer - _Muriel_ , Surana recalls as her name - seated across from them. She opens her mouth - once, twice - coughing up a bit of phlegm, and wraps her lips around a single word.

“ _Pregnant_?”

“S’right, dearie. Two moons along, or just about, if I’m any judge. And I am.”

“But, but that’s not possible!”

The healer scoffs, a fond but exasperated expression on her face as she reaches out and taps Surana on the knee, her eyes darting to Zevran over Surana’s shoulder. “I assure you, _it is_. Now, best we get you started on something for the nausea.” With a groan the healer presses herself to stand, the joints of the older woman popping audibly when she does, and begins to gather dried plants and herbs scattered across shelves and flat surfaces throughout the dwelling - wholly unmindful of Surana’s rapid decline into panic. “As for the fatigue, I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about that. ‘Side from recommending that you rest up, best you can. Babes are taxing under normal circumstances, but-”

“No. No you don’t understand. I’m a Grey Warden!”

The healer doesn’t pause in her activity, though she does spare Surana a pair of arched eyebrows. “And?”

“And? And...and, we’re - I mean - Grey Warden’s, we’re…” Surana shakes her hands in front of her, her whole body trembling with the movement (and _not_ for some other reason) in an effort to force the words clinging to the tip of her tongue to be free. “Barren! Grey Wardens are barren.”

The healer laughs outright, a single bark that rings in Surana’s ears for seconds after. “That the line they’re selling these days? Wonders never cease.”

Surana gapes. Like a fish flopping about on land and desperate for life-giving water. “What the **hell** is that supposed to mean?!” And now her body _is_ absolutely shaking for a reason other than her always mobile hands.

One of Zevran’s hands slides up her back and over her shoulder, gripping it with a gentle pressure. “Mi amor, perhaps we should-”

But Surana just shakes his hand off and jumps from her seat, wanting to quarrel at eye-level with the healer. She regrets the motion almost immediately, however, swaying backwards; dizzy from the sudden rush of blood. “Ughhhh…”

Zevran’s arm is around her side in quick order, supporting her as she leans back into him, quite willing now. He’s silent, but she can feel his worry in the tension of his body, and in the way that he touches his lips to the back of her head. No real pressure, just their presence against her scalp.

“I’m fine, I just…” She trails off as he places two fingers to her chin and tilts her face towards his. She meets his gaze, the warmth that she has come to depend on there, but shadowed by uncertainty. It stops the empty platitudes from spilling further from her lips; his steadfast support calming her in moments, in that way that only he has ever been able.

“As I was ‘bout to say, Warden’s aren’t barren.” Surana’s attention is jerked back towards Muriel, the healer’s back to the duo as her ample figure sways with her movements; chopping and sifting out a cornucopia of herbs upon the table. “If they were, you wouldn’t be here right now, would ya? No. they just have a bit of a tougher time of it, s’all.” The healer makes her way back to the now standing pair’s side, a tightly tied sack of herbs in her hand. “Now, take this. A spoonful’s worth as your tea every morning ought to do, every day ‘til the next moon. The nausea should pass on its own by then. Get plenty of rest - the erratic behavior you noted in your magic will be helped by that - and try to avoid any unnecessary stress, or battles with darkspawn.”

The last comment surprises a laugh out of Surana. “Only unnecessary ones?”

“Well, far be it from me to tell a Warden how to do their job. But, do your best all the same.”

“I’ll...I’ll try?”

Zevran reaches around to take the sack from the healer, Surana watches as he measures its weight in his hand a moment before turning a thin-lipped gaze upon Muriel. “I confess, that while I am rather...inexperienced when it comes to the raising of children, I have had occasion to be amongst many a woman in all stages of expectancy. Beautiful creatures, at any stage, yes? But the nausea! Hmm, now that! That is something that all of them would have gladly killed to resolve. Not that killing was all that rare where I came from, but I digress.

“My point is that I know of no tea that would cure their nausea.” Zevran bounces the bag in his hand once, and the thin-lipped smile turns into an outright frown. “In fact, I know of only one _tea_ ever taken by a woman finding herself unexpectedly with child.”

It takes several drawn out-seconds for the full meaning of Zevran’s words to sink into Surana, causing her to draw in a light gasp of air at the implication. She turns to the healer, hoping that Zevran’s not-so-subtle accusation has no basis in reality. While she’s had no time whatsoever to process this situation that she finds herself in, and can’t say if she is even _ready_ to have a child, neither would she want the choice taken from her in such a manner.

But there is an unmistakable gleam in the healer’s eyes when Surana meets them, and then - unless Surana has in fact descended into full-on hallucinations (which is a distinct possibility, given the circumstances) - the woman _laughs_.

“My, my, aren’t you an untrusting one. Guess that’s to be expected, innit? Given who you both are. But I assure you, it is not _that_ sort of tea. Come, I’ll show you my ingredients, and my prep table. May-hap that will ease your fears? Nothin’ special about what went into it.” She leads Zevran to the table, tossing a warm smile back towards Surana. “Nothin’ magical about it neither, dearie, I’m sorry to say. S’only a mix of ginger and mint. Bit of elfroot in the there too; nothin’ nasty. It won’t be a cure all, but I assure you, it’ll help some.”

Zevran spends a few minutes looking through the healer’s stocks and assessing her work top, while Muriel looks on indulgently. She steps closer to Surana, dropping her voice to a mock whisper. “That one’s gonna be a right sight when you’re pains come in half a year. Mark my words. You’re gonna find yourself comforting _him_ when they hit, I tell ya.”

Surana snorts, the healer’s easy demeanor winning her over in spite of herself (and her still nerve-wrangled and rolling stomach).

Zevran joins them a moment later, tilting his head to the healer as he wraps his arm around Surana’s waist. The weight of the sack he found so questionable minutes before now tied to his belt and bumping her hip as he settles against her. Surana wraps her own arm around his waist, clinging a shade tighter than she would on a normal day. “You have my apologies, and my thanks, for permitting me to examine your stores.”

Muriel breezes out a laugh, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. “S’alright. Not my first worried papa to be, ya know? Though, you _are_ the first Crow/Warden pair I’ve had in my hut.”

Surana swallows, but Zevran only laughs. The sound boisterous, but off. Forced in a way that she doubts the healer even notices. “Yes, well. Despite all of our considerable efforts, Crows and Wardens fraternizing all over Thedas seems an unlikely sell in the near future. Probably for the best though, no? I’d wager the Wardens would get even cooler welcomes than they already do, should that be the case!”

“I’m not certain that’s possible, my love.”

She leans into his warmth as he presses a kiss to her forehead. “Perhaps not.” She finds the corner of her lips dragging upward as their eyes meet.

A clapping sound rouses the two from their introspection. She turns to Muriel to find the healer settling back into her seat. “Well then, if we’ve gotten all of the concerns of nefarious plots on my behalf out of the way, you two best have a seat; we have a few other dos and don’ts we should go over before you be on your way, yeah?”

~~~\/~~~

The sun is just beginning to lower beneath the horizon when Zevran and Surana make it back to the Inn they've been holding themselves up in for the past fortnight; an unplanned waypoint on their way deeper into Rivain. Taken on account of the strange levels of fatigue that had begun to plague her, coupled with the other symptoms (The nausea, for one. And also, she’d needed to break water. _A lot._ ) she can now acknowledge were the hallmark of new life kindling in her womb. She’d often been irregular with her cycles, but…

She feels a fool for not having recognized the signs for what they are. Her fingers flicker briefly over her abdomen, awe and fear in equal measure suffusing her.

 _A child?_ Their _child_? _Her’s and Zev’s?_

She’s not certain how she feels about it all. Their lives being what they are, how could they possibly hope to continue on as they’ve been, with a babe in tow?

She can’t deny that there is a certain...spark, that lights within her at the thought. Of him and her and their child, making _a life_ together.

But what sort of a _life_ could they offer it? With her only just on leave from the Wardens (Not so much a permitted leave, _exactly_ , but Weisshaupt is so very far away! Could she really be blamed for not making the journey all the way out there just to ask ‘mother may I?’) and with the two of them just now starting to deal with Zevran’s past associates…

No. No their life as it stands is no place for a child.

So why does it _hurt_ so much to imagine their life continuing on their planned course, absent of children?

Their journey from the healer’s hut on the outskirts of the town is a short, but silent one. Still, it’s long enough for Surana’s nerves to gnaw straight to the core of her; worry, doubt, and confusion seeping into all the newly emptied crevices left behind.

She lingers by the stairs while Zevran speaks to the barkeep, requesting two meals to be sent up to their room. He joins her a moment later, and together they make their way up the steps and their room at the end of the hall. She wastes no time in stripping away her travel cloak and boots, pausing a moment only to place them by the wardrobe, before she makes her way to the bed at the center of the room, her fingers tugging at a loose thread in the hem of her tunic in an effort to distract herself from her conflicting thoughts and emotions.

It doesn’t work.

It’s only after the food has arrived, and neither of them make a move to eat it - she’s quite the opposite of hungry at the moment - that she turns her gaze from her lap and the stubborn thread, and up to Zevran. She finds his gaze turned towards the windows, a faraway look in his eyes that lets her know whatever he sees, it is not beyond that pane of glass.

“Zev?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you…?” She gestures at the bed helplessly, and because he _knows_ her like no one else ever has, he is by her side in two long strides, and she is laying back against the pillows wrapped in his arms two heartbeats after that. She empties a heavy sigh upon his neck as she settles against him, her hand raising to heart level, where she can feel the steady beat of the muscle through his chest.

Minutes tick on like that, counted off in her mind on gusts of air and beats of hearts, before she finds her voice. Giving breath to the tumble of thoughts vying for attention in her brain.

Once she starts, she finds it impossible to _stop_.

“I’ve never really given any _thought_ to having children. It’s always...it’s always just been one of those things that - that I didn’t need to worry on, you know? I’d been moved to the circle so young and I - well, I know that it _happened_ there, sometimes. Everyone had heard the whispers about it. Every now and again growing up a mage would disappear for a length of time and then months later…

“But, but you couldn’t...they wouldn’t allow a _mage_ to, to…the child would just be whisked away, like -” the words _like with Wynne_ slide along her tongue, dying before the air in her lungs can give them life. “I never wanted, I _swore_ that I wouldn’t...so I just put it out of my mind.” She snorts into his collar, her fingers clenching and unclenching. “Took precautions, spells and potions were easy enough to come by in the Circle. And then, when I joined the Wardens. They said...they _said_ \- well, you _know_ what they said, Zev. And I, I _believed_ them. Why wouldn’t I? I’m **tainted**. How can I possibly…”

She shudders in his hold, hiding the way her eyes are moistening by burrowing her head closer to his chest. “I swear to you, Zev, if I had thought, if I even _suspected_ that this was a possibility, I would have-” The tears begin to dribble down her face, his shirt taking the brunt of the assault, as she shakes her head, denying - if only to herself - that she ever would have been so careless. Hoping that he understands that she never would have put him - put _them -_ in this position so unthinkingly.

“Shh, now, my love. Have I told you lately how much I adore you when you babble?”

She snorts a laugh into his shirt, mumbling, “Not since this morning.”

“Ahh, well, my apologies then. For I do. Adore you.” He presses his cheek to the top of her head, one hand running down the length of her back, while the other plays with the braid of hair looped over her ear. One long finger breaks away to trace the shell of it in a way that never fails to make her shiver. “Worship you.” His lips ghost over her forehead, followed by the heat of his breath caressing her cheek. “Love you, with all that I am. And I believe I have been remiss in conveying to you just how much that it is.”

He pulls back from her, just enough to allow her eyes meet his, while the hand not caressing her face stays warm and firm at her back. “For if you knew, then surely - surely you would not think - _for even a moment_ \- that I believe you have deliberately deceived me all these years.To what purpose? To lull me into a sense of complacency filled with mutual adoration, outstanding sex, and fierce love, only to what? Gift me with a child after _five years_ in some strange effort to ensnare me when I am already well and truly yours? What a devious plot!”

The hand at her back, strokes downward towards her hip, lithe fingers dancing along the curve and up, to spread out along her abdomen, the light tickle from the digits causing a giggle to bubble out of her-the sound more of a gurgle, mixed as it is with her tears. She drops one of her hands down to rest atop his in a squeeze; their fingers linking with ease.

“While I’ve not given much thought to having children, I would be a liar - well, a worse liar than I already am, of course!” He gifts her with a wink and a rakish grin that forces another laugh from her. “If I did not say I _have_ thought on it. And now that I find us presented with this, quite unanticipated, opportunity?

“I find that the image of a small babe with your hair, and my nose is at the forefront of my mind. Would they have your eyes, or my laugh?” She stares at him as his finger alights upon her mouth, his own turning up at the corners as he weaves his words around them. “Would they have the same bow to their lips as you; would their ears be straight like mine? And imagine the sort of wonderful havoc a child with your magical talent and my unending supply of charm could wreak upon the world! I think of that and I am filled with... _wonder_ at the possibilities.”

“But, but a _child_ , Zev…” She shakes her head, grasping for words and explanations that will not come.

“Would put a bit of a damper on our plans - I know how you love those so! - to infiltrate the Crows and bring an end to their schemes. It may, in fact, but a damper on many of the plans we have entertained throughout the years.”

“And that wouldn’t bother you?”

“Bother? Hmm.” He strokes his hand over her cheek and down, his thumb tapping at her pulsepoint for a moment before he slides the digits up the back of her neck and into the hair at her nape. “No, I find I am quite the opposite of bothered at the thought. We can make new plans. Ones we’ve never considered before. Ones that we’ve never _imagined_ before. It is an intriguing prospect, no?”

“I-” She stares at him, amazed at the ease with which he can accept a change of course so monumental. At how simple he makes it sound; how _wondrous_. He’s always done so much better without a rulebook then she has, but still, she finds that he can surprise her with his adaptability.

It’s there, lying on a blue and green paisley duvet, on the second floor of a lackluster Inn, two days travel from their contact in Dairsmuid that she well and truly decides to hell with rules and expectations.

She may not have a plan for having their entire world upended by the sudden addition of a child to their lives, but who needs plans, when she has Zevran?

He’s always been more than enough.

~~~\/~~~

Pregnant or not (her ever growing symptoms cry ‘ _Yes! Yes, you are! And oh, by the way? Have you peed in the last half-hour? No? Best get on that!’_ ) the plans that they have underway are not so easily abandoned, especially while she is still more than capable of doing something as simple as traveling and meeting with contacts.

They move from the small town – after a surprisingly cheerful goodbye to Muriel - and make their way to Dairsmuid.

And if their traveling time is…delayed due to extra-long hours spent in their shared tent?

( _Surana waking in the hour before dawn, her bladder overfull, but she is so warm and content - wrapped in Zevran’s arms - that she is loath to leave. He presses a gentle kiss to the back of her neck, following it with a nip at the junction where neck means shoulder, and she finds herself purring; pressing her back into his chest. His plan of seduction going horribly awry when his hand skates down her side, a flighty touch that turns into a quick tickle against her ribs, setting off a series of giggles that brings the pressure in her bladder to the forefront of her mind and her body’s needs, forcing her to break from his grasp and leave the tent, lest a very unwelcome accident occur.)_

Coiled around one another; exchanging soft laughs and sweet kisses, and talk of the future to come?

Well, their contact will just have to wait.

~~~\/~~~

Near on two moons later finds them (temporarily) settled in Seere, a room rented above a sea-side pub (where all the windows face the water, and the smell of salt pervades the senses) they’ve managed to reroute their plans for a time while they attempt to plot the course of their newly altered lives.

( _“I’m quite partial to the name ‘Seleny’ for a girl, or ‘Rialto’ for a boy.”_

_“We aren’t naming our child after a city in Antiva, Zev.”_

_“No? Would you prefer ‘Denerim’ or ‘Amaranthine’ then?”_

_“Hah! No, not really. What is with your fixation on naming the baby after a city?”_

_“Ahh! What is in a name indeed? The name should be something important to us, yes? And I can recall, with utmost clarity, several_ very _memorable evenings with you in each of those places.”_

 _“Zev, if_ that _is going to be the criteria we use for naming this baby, we either are going to need to find_ some _way to narrow it down, as I’m pretty sure we’ve…had_ memorable _evenings across most of Thedas,_ or _we’re going to have to have more children than I am remotely comfortable with.”_

 _“Both excellent points, my love. Still, would you be opposed to making at least_ one _more memorable evening?”_

 _“Not in the slightest. But let’s get dinner first, I’m absolutely_ famished _from our memorable afternoon.”)_

It is in Seere, on a night like any other - settled in after a long afternoon meandering around the market, and _enjoying one_ another’s company quite a lot - that she wakes to a stabbing pain in her abdomen unlike any she has felt before, and a slow spill of warm, thick, wetness between her legs. She gasps for breath, a flame sparking to life in the lamp by the bed as she scrambles to pull back the covers.

Her fingers dip down, into the muddy red seeping from between her thighs and through her nightshift. The pace of her breathing ratchets up, each inhale quicker and more shallow than the last.

She finds her free hand clutching Zevran’s forearm, quite against her will or knowledge. He stirs awake slow at first, and then all at once. Shooting up in the bed with a “Mi cara, what’s-” His voice trails off as he takes in the sight of blood on her fingertips, and follows her gaze to its source; his face paling.

What happens after that is a blur for Surana. Zevran’s hands flutter over her, checking her for any signs of outward injury (“ _Please, my love. Be still. Let me..._ ”) before she is whisked with care into the Inn’s shared bathing chamber.

Someone - another guest, or the Innkeeper, she’s not certain who, because Zev never leaves her side - must send for a healer, as a stern-faced man reeking of an apothecary den joins them at one point.

Surana is wrapped in a clean shift, and swaddled with ample cloth between her legs to soak up the blood that has slowed, but not stopped. She downs first one potion, bitter, and jarring (“ _To slow the progress, Madam, until we’re sure._ ”); then another, similar in taste to the one Muriel gave her when she was confirming the pregnancy; followed by a third - cool and sweet, and smelling of mint.

She listens - detached from the proceedings, watching from outside herself as if this is all happening to a stranger - as the healer explains that the loss ( _‘Loss? Loss! What does that even_ mean _?_ ’) was not due to anything Surana had done. He tells her that there was nothing that could have prevented it; explaining away that these things ‘ _just happen_ ’ and that it’s her body’s way of saying that this one wasn’t meant to be. But she sees the way his eyes narrow when he learns that she’s a Warden, and hears the judgmental way he breathes out an ‘Ahh’ as if that bit of knowledge is all he needs.

She finds herself wishing they were back near Dairsmuid, and that Muriel was here instead.

But still, he manages to collect himself enough to tell them they can try again.  _“In time, should you chose.”_ He follows that up with a string of dos and don'ts and musts and mustn'ts.

It’s a whole lot of noise, and Surana just can’t... _she can’t._

Sleep is long in coming that night, but when it finally does, she is latched in Zevran’s arms on the bearskin rug in front of the hearth, his shaky breaths gusting over the point of her ear, and exhaustion crushing her down, down, until each breath is a drain. Her bloodshot, dried out eyes clamp shut against the rising sun as it trickles in through the drawn curtains. And a feeling of emptiness settles inside her, so acute that she imagines it is there for good.

Her new companion, instead of the unknown child she’d already begun to love.

~~~\/~~~

The empty feeling lasts and lasts, until one day she wakes, and forgets to remember. She spends the whole day working on a plan for their next infiltration, oblivious to her own cloudy memory.

Until she draws the covers over her in bed, and the memory, along with the emptiness that always accompanies it, flares bright in her mind once more.

She cries herself to sleep that night in arms banded tight around her; the visage of her love, pained, yet stoic as he holds her close through the night.

His steadfast presence, a shelter in which she can always find refuge.

~~~\/~~~

Never one to rest, time passes, as it is want to do. And day by day, their lives return to some level of normalcy. They are...not the same as before, but neither are they that different.

Though, perhaps, she has more moments of somber reflection now, than she had before. Which, given all the many ways her life has turned on its head in the past, is saying something.

Still, life continues on, as do they.

And so they return to their plans to take out the Crows from the inside, only now their pillow talk - in between uncovering intrigues, and putting a rotten guildmaster to bed for good - is interspersed with musings of _after_. And the _possibility_ of a child, or - _Maker help her!_ – **children** is on the table.

The more days that pass, the more she finds herself so far beyond settled on the concept that she has begun to firmly plant a hopeful field of _plans_ watered by it.

Then, near on a year later, Surana begins to notice the same symptoms that had once caused her and Zev to seek out a healer begin to creep upon her. She catches onto them faster this time, she thinks. Her breasts are swollen, and tender. And she finds that the sudden need to break water every two hours fills her with excitement. (The return of her temperamental stomach she is admittedly, a little _less_ excited about.)

The time of her moonblood comes and goes with no sign of the regular bleed, and she chances to whisper to Zev her suspicions. She sees his eyes alight, the mere potential rousing in him a youthful giddiness. With a whoop, he rolls her over, stealing the breath from her lungs with his kisses, and making love to her until the sun is high in the sky, and their plans for the day are well and truly shot.

Not that she minds. Not one bit.

They are in no place to seek out a healer at the moment, so they have no choice but to wait it out and see. But then, as if triggered by the simple airing of the possibility, the symptoms begin to clear. The nausea is the first to go, followed by the fatigue. She begins to worry that something is wrong, her mana flickering in and out with her increasing stress levels.

And on the next moon, her blood comes. Darker, and heavier than usual, but there all the same; damning in its presence. She is able to keep the tears at bay this time, willing them into compliance. Telling herself that it was never for certain, that it was only...

_Only._

It doesn’t help. Not really.

That night, she falls asleep to Zevran’s whispered promises of love, and devotion. One of them ringing out longer, and louder into the night than the rest, and the mantra by which she is able to find peace at last.

_“To have you by my side is a greater gift than I deserve, my love. So long as I have you, I have need for nothing more.”_

And though the _lack_ of _more_ hurts, she knows he’s right. They have each other.

And that has always been more than enough.

~~~\/~~~

 

It’s another year and two moons later when Zevran sets out without her for Kirkwall.

“I don’t care if you have to break into a rookery and steal a bird, Zev. You _will_ write to me, and let me know that you have arrived, and that you are _safe_. And you _will_ stay safe. Maker help you if I learn that you have up and _died_ on me, Zevran Arainai, because I will hunt you down _through the fade_ if I have to, and _drag_ you back by your ears to the land of the living, no matter how much it hurts. Understand?”

“Hahaha, yes, mi amor. I understand quite perfectly. I am - as always - _yours_ to command.”

“I’m serious, Zev.”

“As am I, my love. As am I.” Zevran’s arm slides along her waist to grip her at the small of her back; his lips hovering a hairsbreadth from her own. She is awed by how even after so many years, her stomach still twirls with anticipation at having him so close.

There is no denying how much she loves this man.

She attempts to close the gap between their lips, only to be denied as he pulls back, the light-hearted smile upon his face tilting down into a serious line. “Now, if I may be so bold as to ask _you_ the same.”

She meets his gaze, reading the worry and concern, filtered through that same level of trust and love that she herself feels, and can do nothing but nod in agreement, the pressure within her easing a fraction as his lips (finally) meet hers.

It is, with that mutual exchange of promise, that they part at last. The course of her own plans taking her to Hunter Fell. (Weisshaupt is _still_ too far away for her to go there willingly, but there is only so long that she can put off her duties with the Wardens. The fact that she was able to arrange a meeting at a Keep outside of Tevinter is reason enough to celebrate.)

And though she hates having to part from him - it has been years now that they have remained by one another's side, and she does not like having him so far afield from her - she understands the necessity.

Or rather, she does, right up until the moment that the nausea returns. Followed in quick succession by every other symptom of being with child she’s experienced before. She manages to shuffle the probable cause to the back of her mind long enough to meet up with the Wardens, but by the time she arrives, she has no choice but to seek out a healer.

She opts for one in town, rather than the Warden installed one at the Keep. There, she confirms what she’s long since known - seeing as how by her count, she’s beyond four moons late.

She pauses a moment after leaving the healers, at the doors to the local rookery. Hopes and fears and prayers and insecurities tumbling around in her mind and desperate for release.

She imagines putting quill to paper, and telling Zevran of the _possibility_ growing inside of her. Imagines him cracking the seal, and reading the words - his own hopes and aspirations swelling inside of him - only to have them dashed when again they meet, and she is once again, a cold and empty field.

No, she decides. It is better to wait, and see what the Maker (and the damnable Blight swirling in her veins) has in store first, before sending word.

Resolute in her choice, she heads for the Keep - satchel of stomach calming herbs secure in her pack - and makes her introductions.

She keeps her fingers crossed that her business at the Keep will be swift, and that she will be on her way without them ever the wiser as to her condition.

One out of the two isn’t bad, she supposes, given the circumstances.

Her time at the Keep isn’t short, but she manages - _barely_ \- to keep her pregnancy from being noticed by the Wardens (armor may not be forgiving, but thankfully, robes _are_ ).

However, a hiccup in her plans makes itself note as she is nearing the end of her time at the Keep. A hiccup in the shape of an entire contingent of junior Wardens, along with a handful of more experienced ones, being handed to her to command.

 _Again_.

Because she managed things _so well_ in Amaranthine.

At least this time, she consoles herself, she isn’t responsible for their joining. And also, the command comes with _very_ promising news.

Namely that their mission will take them straight through Kirkwall, where they will meet up with another contingent of Wardens led by Commander Stroud who is already en route from up north.

She may or may not do a jig in her room after receiving word. But just a small one. Very dignified in fact.

It is during this _very dignified jig_ that she feels the first evidence of her babe’s quickening within her stomach.

It is a little thing, the smallest of flutters against the lower wall of her abdomen, but her breath catches at it all the same. She falters, mid-jig, and presses shaking hands to her stomach, hoping, but doubting, until - _there!_ She feels it again, a press and a roll that somehow manages to knock something intangible which had been sitting off-kilter in her heart back into place.

And suddenly - with the smallest of movements - everything becomes undeniably  _real._

She’s going to have a _baby._  And she will be _damned_ if she doesn’t find the father before she births it.

It’s with a lightness in her steps, and a feeling of genuine anticipation, that she sets off from the Keep for Kirkwall with her newly acquired Wardens by her side.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

Hawke’s lost.

Not just in the ‘ _Oh, everything has happened so fast, and my boyfriend **blew up** the fucking chantry, and Kirkwall is a flaming pile of **shit**_ , _but HEY! at least the lyrium-addled Knight-Commander is dead, and oh-shit now we’re on the run, because my boyfriend **fucking blew up the chantry** and I have no idea how to deal with it_ ’ way, but in the actual, literal sense.

Her companions halt behind her as she breaks at the underground crossroads they’ve squirreled themselves away in; the directions Zevran - quite useful, having him around has turned out to be; who’d have thought the seeming inconstant elf would show up again during their hour of need, offering a helping hand as Kirkwall descended into utter madness around them - had provided when he first got them to the subterranean entrance long since run their course.

Behind her, her companions are weary, hungry, and in need of rest. Worn out from the battle in Kirkwall and the rapid paced exit they’d made from the city and into the hills, only to have now gotten themselves lost deep underground.

Varric’s regular _“Have I mentioned I hate caves, Hawke? And tunnels? And caverns? And just generally everything underground? Because I feel like it needs repeating. Just in case.”_ And Carver’s _incessant_ bickering with Anders the new soundtrack of their lives.

The only break in this monotony is the ongoing discussion between Isabela and Zevran (peppered with the occasional comment from Varric, who Hawke is almost certain is making a mental checklist for a future novel; and Merrill, whose honest curiosity is about the closest thing to sunshine any of them has felt in days). The two old friends (and former lovers, _clearly_ , though knowing Isabela as well as Hawke does, and after having known Zevran for approximately five seconds, is the opposite of a surprise) have been catching up on old times and old acquaintances, on and off, for the entire two-day trek.

_“Antonio? No! That bastard. Please tell me he died a painful death?”_

_“Ahh, yes. A most horrid one. Screaming and on fire, in fact. It was a most heart-warming sight.”_

_“Knives malfunctioning?”_

_“Hah! No, my fine, dwarven friend. The fire was courtesy of my love, who takes great personal offense to people trying to kill me. It is a burden, but one I bear happily.”_

_“Your love? This would be The Hero of Ferelden, right? I heard somewhere that the two of you ran away together after the Blight.”_

_“Ohh, that sounds so_ romantic _! Is she as terrifying as everyone says she is?”_

 _“Oh,_ Kitten _, you have_ no _idea. In fact, have I ever told you about the time_ I _met the Hero?”_

But even that somehow pleasant conversation has slowed to a non-existent crawl with their stoppage at the crossroads before them. Well, with the exception of her brother and Anders. _Their_ argument has grown in volume from an occasional quiet barb thrown to a steady stream of childish whisper shouting the longer they stand still and within five feet of one another. She tunes it out best she can and makes her way to the narrow passageways before her; casting a small ball of light down each to try to judge which one they should all take.

Her criteria for choosing includes ‘doesn’t look like a death trap’ and ‘moderately less spiders.’

It’s not great criteria, but damn it, people should stop putting her in charge.

Sure, she _plays_ a great game of being capable and confident, but in reality, she’s just a bumbling mess wandering her way through life (and these damn caverns) with more luck than any one person should ever have all to themselves.

What most fail to realize is that not all that luck is _good_.

Checks and balances, and all that.

Well, fuck luck.

“Varric, Aveline, and Merrill take the cavern on the right. Fenris, Isabela, and Zevran you take the one in the middle. Scout ahead. See what you see, and then we can all meet back up here in twenty. Barkspawn and I will stay here with the schoolchildren, and see if we can get them to behave long enough to check out the cavern on the left before you get back.”

Hawke watches as her companions all acknowledge her in their own ways (Varric - predictably - grumbling the whole time about missing the sky and not being able to _breathe_ proper down here) before splitting up and heading off as per her request.

Carver and Anders don’t even seem to _notice_. Instead, their voices just get louder and louder. And Carver looks like he’s coming dangerously close to shoving the other man.

Which would just end bad for everyone, so she should probably stop it before it gets that far.

Right?

She counts to ten in her head; giving them every opportunity to shut the hell up and come to their senses. Then when they fail to do so - because _of course_ they can’t exceed her expectations - she swings her staff around and aims a blast of ice at the squabbling duo’s feet. The shards hit the ground, making them dance back and away lest they get caught in the backlash.

“What the-”

“Damn it, Marian!”

“Shut it, Carver. I thought you were here to help? Having to stop every fifteen minutes so that you and Anders can bicker like children is the _opposite_ of helpful.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Did you want me to coddle your abomination boyfriend? I didn’t realize **that** was what I signed up for when I chose to _abandon the Wardens_ to help you.”

Hawke reaches up to rub at her forehead, hoping to ease the ever-present headache some.

No such luck. ( _Fucking luck._ )

“Look, Carver. I appreciate what you’ve done. I _do_. But in case it’s escaped your notice, _we’re lost_. I need a little less angry spouting between you two, and a little more _helpful suggestions_.”

“In case it’s escaped your notice, _Sister_ , your _boyfriend_ is the reason we’re in this mess in the first place.”

Hawke shoots a glance at Anders, watching for any signs that Justice is going to make an appearance, but he seems oddly...subdued, given the fight that had just been broiling. “No, it hasn’t. But we’ve all made our decisions, Carver. No one is forcing you to be here.”

He raises both brows at that. “And where would you have me go?”

“At the moment? Down this corridor with me so that we can maybe see the light of day again.” She shrugs, tossing her hands out to her sides. “Just a thought.”

Carver straightens his back, looking ten years older in the dim light of the torches. “Fine. I’d like to get a hot meal in me at some point any way.”

Carver stalks off in front - Barkspawn trailing behind him. Hawke lets them go, waiting for Anders to join her before following after her brother and mabari.

As her and Anders fall into step with one another she can’t help by sway closer to him; pulled into his orbit. As always. She misses him when he’s not near, even when it is only a few measly feet. Maybe she shouldn’t, given what he’s done. But that’s the truth of it all the same.

Love’s funny like that.

“I’m sorry.”

Hawke sighs. “For anything in particular, or just in general?”

“...Both. I think. I never meant for...this.” He gestures to the cavern around them, and she wonders if he is limiting that ‘this’ to the immediate vicinity, or to the world as a whole.

Not that it matters, her response would be the same either way. “I know. It’s just…” She trails off, letting the sound of her footfalls fill the empty spaces where her words can’t go, giving herself a few precious moments to gather all her wayward thoughts and slot them into a semblance of order that maybe - _just maybe_ \- will make a lick of sense.

“We’re supposed to be _partners_ , Anders. How...how are we supposed to _be_ that if you keep things from me. Huge, _chantry exploding things_?”

Anders is quiet, for a while. Their movements even paced as they make their way down the seemingly never-ending passageway of repetitive rocks and fungi of boringness. His voice is dry, and cracked, when he responds. “I know. _I know_. But I-” He heaves a sigh, running a hand through the disheveled mass of blond hair on his head, and it probably says something about her state of mind that the action makes her want to sit him down and give it a good combing more than anything else.

 _Well_ , a combing and maybe a wash. But they could all use that at this point, couldn’t they? (Blood tends to stick.)

“I thought - no, that’s not quite right - I _knew_ you’d try and talk me out of it.”

“I know. And maybe…” She shrugs, an empty laugh escaping the confines of her chest. “No, you’re right. I would’ve. Of course I would’ve, we both know that. But you know what that means, Anders? It means you didn’t tell me, not because you were worried I would try and talk you out of it, but that you knew I _could_. And if you knew I could, well, that means you had _doubts_ about what you were doing, and if you had doubts, then...maybe - maybe this _wasn’t_ the call to arms that we _needed_.” In a rare show of restraint, built entirely out of her still unfaltering love for the man, she let’s the final part of that sentence ‘ _but the one_ you _wanted_ ’ go unsaid.

Even so, she can see color rising back into his cheeks at what she _does_ say; the pink rush of blood highlighted by the blue glow of Justice. He halts in his tracks, the long fingers of one hand wrapping around her elbow and turning her to face him full-on. “All mages-”

“Deserve to be _free_ , Anders. You think I don’t get that? Do you think _for a second_ that I’m not on board with that? Honestly? Have we _met_?”

“Hawke-”

“No. No, you’ve had your say, and then some. We’ve all got the wounds to show for it, Kirkwall most of all.” Anders jaw ticks at that, but he doesn’t interrupt further, so she counts that as a win. “The _point_ that I am getting at here, is that _I am on your side_ , _Anders_. I have been, for _ten years_.”

Hawke huffs out a breath of air, turning her eyes from his gaze towards the jagged rock ceiling a few short feet above their heads, droplet’s of water - or at least what she _hopes_ is water - drip down towards her feet.

Varric’s right. Caves _suck_.

Hawke abandons her view of the ceiling to meet her lover’s eyes once more, surprised at how bright they appear, after so many days of appearing as little more than murky pools.

It makes something odd and buoyant swell inside her. Something she knew, once upon a time, but whose presence she’d long given up for dead.

She’d call it hope, if she was prone to fits of dramatics. (Or maybe if Varric was around to hear it, good book fodder, that.) Instead, she just presses on.

“I _love_ you, Anders. But we can’t…You need to _talk_ to me. No matter how much you think I might disagree. No matter how worried you are about my reaction. I need you to _trust_ me enough to know that I’m going to hear you out. And that anything I may say or do in response, is being said by someone who _loves_ you, completely.” She shrugs, hoping to help ease some of the tension that has grown since they stopped walking. “And maybe a little irrationally. If the last few days are anything to go by. That’s the only way this is going to work.”

Hawke waits, silent, patient, for him to mull over what she has said, certain in his response. But then, as the seconds tick on by without a word from him - his eyes slowly losing their light and turning from her own - she finds herself, for the first time since this damned conversation started, doubting everything.

“You...you _do_ want this - us - to work still, don’t you? I don’t need a huge sweeping gesture, or anything, Anders. No rivers of blood or promises of eternal bliss or any of that, just a simple ‘Yes, Hawke. I still want to be with you, because in this whole crazy-upside down world we’re still the only thing that makes complete sense to me too’ will do just fine. Or, if you’re of a mind-”

Caught in the trap of her ongoing babble, Hawke manages to forget the state of her person, and attempts to scratch at her scalp through her grimy hair, only to immediately regret it when her gloved fingers get caught in a tangled knot sealed by caked on blood. She fights to free her hand, with success only coming along after Anders offers his assistance; freeing her hair strand by strand with care from its trappings.

“Thanks.”

He gifts her a wobbly smile, the fingers of his hand alighting against her cheek in an almost caress.

She heaves out a breath, the distance between them reduced to inches, but still so far to cross. “So, do you-”

A shout from down the cavern breaks her mid-sentence. The clash of sword and shield ringing out loudly in the distance. They break into a run towards the noise, their conversation forgotten for the moment.

What they find at the source of the cacophony is the cousin of chaos, and the lover of mayhem.

It turns out that all three corridors have fed out into one central point, leading off to a wider cavern ahead. Deepstalkers and spiders pour out from all sides, like water from a well. Dozens of them, coming from locations that Hawke can’t even _fathom_ has having housed them all.

The collective lot of her companions have already come together, and are clamoring over themselves to deal with the buggers. And right, smack in the middle, is the world’s largest, _hairiest_ , spider ( _why is it ALWAYS spiders?!? WHY?_ ) Hawke has ever _seen._ So large that it makes the smaller, people sized spiders scurrying around it look positively cute in comparison.

“Andraste’s twisted-!”

Hawke and Anders dive into the fray, Hawke using the blade on her staff more than spells, uncertain that she can keep them controlled in such a close environment. (She’s learned from experience that cave ins are no fun, and with luck being the brat that it is, she’d rather not chance it.) But her arms tire sooner than she’d like - running on fumes as she is, as they _all_ are - and she starts shooting off little icepicks of rage instead.

Minutes tick on by, and they are making a dent, but the spiders - the damnable _spiders_ \- are still swarming. She swirls from one to the other, and as she turns back, she sees a set of pincers aimed at her face. A blur in front of her is capped with the whooping sound of laughter with an Antivan accent. When her eyes focus, it’s to see Zevran wiping ichor from his blade using the heel of his boot.

“Nice work.”

The elf winks at her, and she laughs. “I aim to please, Champion.”

And then he is off again, right into the thick of it. Hawke falls back, angling to keep a cleared wall at her rear, and taking aim for the massive beast in the middle of them all. “Let’s do this, you bastard.”

She works at it, noting Anders presence at her side a moment when the cool weight of a barrier falls over her, before she sees him move off to help Isabela and Merrill, whose spells of choice make her appear to have become one with the cavern walls around her. But then a breath later, another stream of magic joins hers. Fire to her ice. A burst of flame rocking the spider back in time with her own attacks.

Hawke spares a glance to the right, noting the source is coming from a mage she’s never seen before.

A very _pregnant_ mage.

“Huh.”

But Hawke can’t spare any more brain power on the situation than that before she has to focus solely on the task at hand. The two work in tandem, knocking the beast down bit by bit, until - at last - the horrid thing screeches and catches flame. Flailing about until it’s on its back, and breathing its last. Carver stabs it through the face - _twice_ \- for good measure.

She turns to the new - and oh so random - addition to their fighting party, prepared to offer thanks, and then some, when a different sort of shout from those that were echoing in the cavern a moment before reaches her ears.

“Amor!”

Zevran swoops pass them all through the dissipating smoke, dodging the gored out deepstalkers at their feet and the still-sizzling husk of the giant spider roasting on its back, and gathers the woman into his arms. His lips press to hers so fervently that Hawke can do nothing but stare in awe.

She watches as his hands slide down from cradling her face, following the curve of her sides, before resting upon the swell of her belly. The kiss lessens in intensity, but lingers on with what Hawke can interpret as nothing short of pure happiness.

The two lovers remain entangled, murmuring to one another too low for their words to be audible, but the emotions on their faces plain for all to see as they stand still, bathed in the barest bit of light seeping down through a crack high above the cavern. It’s like a scene straight out of one of Varric’s novels.

It makes Hawke’s heart skip a beat.

Anders hand upon her forearm manages to - finally - draw her attention away for a moment, and she finds herself dropping the base of her staff to the ground, so that she may slide her hand into his; squeezing his bare digits with her gloved ones.

She loses herself in his gaze for a moment. Finding the corners of her mouth pulling up ever so slightly at the look in his eyes. “Anders?”

“Hawke, I-”

A hiss sounds at their back, followed by a thump and the thunk of a sword hitting its target, along with a heated curse from Carver. “While this is all very touching, we have a bit of a situation on our hands here! Maybe you could hold the feel goods off until _after_ we’re done _fighting for our lives!_ ”

Despite the situation, laughter spills from Hawke’s lips. He might be an ass, but he’s _her_ ass, and she’s _missed_ her baby brother. “So good to have you back, Carver!”

“Less talking, more killing. Please!”

“I gotta go with Junior on this one, Hawke! Pretty sure we just disturbed a new nest, and it’s a big one.”

 _Fuck_.

“How big?”

“You see that toasted one in the center there?”

Hawke swallows. “Yeah?”

“Bigger.”

Hawke sighs. O _f course_ it’s bigger.

That’s just her sort of luck, after all.

~~~\/~~~

Five hours and one exploding cavern full of spiders later finds the whole lot of them back on the surface and at a camp deep in the hills.

A _Grey Warden_ camp.

The situation is decidedly less worrisome than Hawke would have imagined, given Anders history with the Wardens. That is, if she were ever so inclined as to imagine such a scenario.

Which she was not. At all.

But still, as it turns out, the pregnant mage that came to their rescue was none other than Anders’ friend and former Commander (and Zevran’s lover, and mother to his future child, couldn’t forget _that_ ) the _Hero of Ferelden_.

And oh yeah, the contingent of Wardens they’ve met up with are _hers._  Which basically means that what she says goes.

For once, Hawke, can appreciate how nice it is to have that sort of power.

(Because luck has _absolutely nothing_ to do with this.)

The Hero sells the Wardens some story about Hawke and her companions being a group of poor unfortunate refugees fleeing the destruction of Kirkwall. And wow, wasn’t it nice of their fellow brother Wardens to help them make it out of the city safely?

Which, when you think about it - _is actually the truth_.

In short order, she has them all cleaned, and fed, and ensconced in tents. Hawke’s a little disturbed by the efficiency to be honest.

Not so disturbed that she refuses the hospitality. She’s not **that** much of a fool.

It’s after the fires have begun to burn low, when Hawke _should_ be asleep but is too wound up to even try, that the Hero pulls up a patch of dirt nearby - and starts up a conversation.

“So, it’s up to you, but tomorrow, Zev and I are splitting from the Wardens, and heading northeast, towards Markham. Well, after a bit of a detour first. You and yours are welcome to come along, for as far as you’d like. I’ve already told my Second that I’m claiming the Wardens that ‘rescued’ you for my travels.”

“What? How?”

The Hero shrugs, one hand smoothing over her heavily swollen belly, back and forth. “Anders was easy. Explained that I’m about ready to burst, and I’m going to need a healer on deck. And Carver I said I wanted for extra protection, since if I go into labor, the rest of us will be about useless.” She laughs, and the action lights up her whole face. “Which is true. Still, I won’t hold any of you to that, once we’re out of eyeshot of the rest of the Wardens. Whether or not you choose to come with is on you.”

Hawke blinks. Blindsided and confused, and even though she knows she shouldn’t ask it - gift horses don’t like when you look in their mouths after all - she does anyway. “Why?”

“Why what?”

And damn it all, but Hawke just can’t keep her trap shut, even when she knows she _should_. Her curiosity will probably be the death of her one day. “Why would you do that for us? We’re practically strangers. We’re _fugitives_. You could turn any of us in, and you’d be within your right to do so-”

The Hero lifts a hand, halting Hawke mid-stream. “First off, that’s not entirely true. Isabela, well, her and Zev go _way_ back.” The Hero draws Hawke’s attention across the campsite, where Zevran has Merrill enraptured, and Isabela laughing her head off at whatever story he’s telling; while Varric is watching on with a broad smile on his face. “And when Zev knows someone like Isabela, it’s hard not to get to know her too.”

She pauses for a moment, her fond smile fading as she sucks in a heavy breath. “And I’ve known Anders since we were kids. Did he ever tell you that? Long before I was his Commander and he was skiving off and running away to Kirkwall.” Hawke shakes her head. Because no, no she didn’t know that. She’d known that Anders considered the Hero a friend - hell, that she was the one that had gifted him with that old cat he missed so much, back in Amaranthine - but she’d always assumed...

“I grew up in the Ferelden Circle, _with_ Anders. He’s older so we didn’t train together or anything, but the place isn’t so big that we don’t all manage to be in each other’s business day in and day out. I know what he went through there - at least, to some extent - because I went through it _too_.” The hero, lifts her shoulders in a lazy up-down motion, but Hawke can see the way that her hands tense on her abdomen, as if she can hold its cargo closer to her than it already is. “Not to mention, I’m the reason him and Justice even _know_ each other. And, from what I’ve gathered regarding what happened in Kirkwall? That puts at least some of the blame on me.”

Hawke opens her mouth to object to that one, but the Hero stops her once again. “But, even if all of that wasn’t true, and I’d never met any of you before, and I didn’t know what it was like to have to constantly watch your words, and measure your steps to make certain you didn’t get thrown into solitary, or _worse_ , by Templars with a jumped-up sense of self-importance, the fact of the matter is that Wardens don’t get involved in politics. It’s not my job to turn any of you into the City Guard, or the Chantry, or whomever. And I see no reason to do their job for them.”

Hawke molls that over for a minute, knowing that something about it sounds _off,_ but not quite able to place her finger on _what_ , until- “But it _is_ your job to deal with defectors in the ranks, isn’t it?”

The smile the Hero gives her at that is blinding in its intensity. “Why, yes it would be, _if_ I wasn’t planning a defection myself.” She looks down to her swollen belly, before glancing back up. “Seeing as how I _am_ \- the Wardens are expecting me to make my way back to the Keep in Hunter Fell, have the baby there, did I mention? - that would just be hypocritical of me.”

A smile pulls slow and steady at the corner of Hawke’s mouth. “Yes, I suppose it would.” She darts her eyes around the camp once more, pondering the fast change of events in her life over the last week - less than that really - and decides that running away with the pregnant Hero of Ferelden is just the right amount of weird to fit right in with everything else. “I won’t speak for everyone, but I think I can safely say that Anders and I will be joining you in the morning.”

The Hero beams a smile at Hawke, the action smoothing out the the worried wrinkle of her brow. “Good. In that case, we best get some sleep. We’ve got a hike ahead of us, and this baby is anything by light!” The Hero hauls herself to her feet and heads off towards Zevran. Hawke watches as the woman wraps an arm around his waist before leaning up to whisper in his ear. Whatever it is she says earns her a laugh, and the two say their goodnights to the others in quick order - Isabela tugging the Hero in for a half-hug and kiss just far enough on the wrong side of friendly for Fenris’s scowl to be visible clear on the other side of camp - before the reunited pair disappear into their tent.

Hawke decides to follow Surana’s example, and makes her way to the tent she’s sharing with Anders. He’s asleep by the time she crawls into the bedroll, but not so far gone that his arm doesn’t encircle her when she lays her head upon his chest. She feels more than hears his whispered _“Love you”_ as she does so. The sentiment more than enough to ease some of the remaining tension that has hovered inside her since their abbreviated conversation earlier.

She whispers it back, doubting he can hear her, but needing to all the same.

And though she knows it too soon for thinking anything of the sort, given all the uncertainties ahead of them, and the mess that they still need to find their way out of, she can’t help but think they’ve caught at least one lucky break.

And while, she still has quite a few bones to pick with luck, in the quiet of the tent, curled against the man she loves, with all of those she cares for safe and nearby - and a genuine Hero out to help their sorry assess anyway she can - Hawke can admit that while not all luck is good, it’s not all bad either.

And maybe that’s good enough.

* * *

~~~\/~~~

* * *

 

_** Epilogue (Three Years Later) ** _

“Maker’s breath! It’s freezing out there!’ Anders shakes the snow from off his back as he stomps into the cabin they've been holed up in for the past season; arms laden with goods from the market in town. He kicks the door shut, glad to have the weather behind him.

“I tried to get you that import from Rivain that you like so much? The coffee?” He moves to the pantry and begins unloading supplies; taking a moment to refresh the ice spell on the chiller box. “But the market was mobbed with people stockpiling before the storm. The seller says I just missed the last packet. I placed an order for some for next time, but it’ll probably be weeks.”

When that statement gets nothing more than a distracted ‘Okay’ in response, Anders glances over at where Hawke is curled up in the corner of the lounge by the neglected fire, concerned. He chuckles beneath his breath a moment later when he notices a crisp page of parchment held in her hand. The lack of angry reproach over the lack of her favorite beverage suddenly making sense. “Letter from Varric?”

“No.”

“Oh. Been a bit since we’ve heard from him hasn’t it?”

“Mmm.”

“I figured with the Conclave approaching he’d be more like to send letters, not less. It’s only what? A moon away?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay. I give. What’s got you so distracted if it’s not a letter from Varric? Something from Carver? He tell off another Commander and get transferred again?”

“What? No. Well, maybe. I don’t really know. It’s not from Carver.”

“She lives!” Anders drops a kiss to her forehead, and follows it with a peck to her lips, before settling down on the other side of the lounge; flicking his fingers in a careless gesture towards the fireplace to provide a much needed spark to get it burning high again. Barkspawn gives a happy bark from where he lazes about by the hearth. “Who from then?”

“Surana and Zev.”

He pulls her feet into his lap so that she can stretch her legs out. “Ahh. And how is my wayward Commander and her pet assassin?”

“About as wayward as us these days. Though some place warmer, judging by the repeated mentions of ‘salt-air.’”

“Huh. They with Isabela you think?”

Hawke shrugs. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they were. Though given the fits of fire their daughter is apparently fond of producing, a ship might be a less than ideal place for them.”

“What? Really?! Muriel’s performing magic? Already? She just turned three!”

Hawke smiles, and presses the heel of her foot into his stomach, prompting him to grab it between his hands to still it. “I was _two_.”

“Yes, well, _you_ my love, are exceptional.”

“True. Thank you for noticing.”

“My pleasure.”

“Have they...I take it they have no plans of attending the Conclave then either?”

Hawke snorts. “Doubtful. Though Surana does allude to their traveling soon. She doesn’t say where though.”

“Hmm.”

The conversation trails off as Hawke continues reading the letter, and Anders considers the current state of events in Thedas. Worries about the upcoming Conclave stirring Justice as they always do; trying to force him off the lounge and into action. Making his insides itch at the thought of staying so far from a meeting that could decide the fate of all the mages in Thedas, no matter the danger he and Hawke would be in should they attend.

No matter the danger they'd - or rather _he'd_ \- be to the success of the Conclave as a whole. For certain there is no way either him, of Justice, would be able to maintain a cool head in such a tense situation. And the last thing the mages of Thedas need are him and his passenger destroying their chances at peace before they can even really start.

None of that changes the fact that he feels like he _needs_ to be there.

For now, he drowns out those worries, those demands, by counting each of his breaths - in and out, in and out - and focusing on the steady, pleased hum that Hawke makes as he rubs soft circles into the pads of her feet. A hum that turns into a blissful sigh several moments later as she lets the letter fall to the floor.

He’s just lifting her feet from his lap, fully intent on tasting her lips once more when she shoots up from the end of the couch, looking frantic.

“Wait! Did you say the market was out of coffee?!”

Anders laughs, and pulls her into his arms. “Don’t worry. I hid a packet in the chiller last week. I had a feeling it was going to be harder to get it, once the weather turned. I remember what happened the last time we ran out.”

Hawke kisses him, sinking into his arms as she smiles against his lips. “You know me so well.”

Anders kisses her back; too happy in the moment to think any more on his worries. They’ll be there tomorrow.

Or the day after. He can deal with them then.

“Yes, I do.”

 

~End. 


End file.
